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Walking Into Spider Webs
With her best hunters out helping in the search for Cheetor and an appointment scheduled with some contact of Prowl's, Scorn takes the time to catch up on some of the history of the planet. Iacon's Hall of Records allows her to do just this, and what a collection! So, with her guards left at the door, the femme wanders the vast library with her assistant moving ahead, gathering what information he can. "I'll give these Cybertronians some credit. They certainly know how to keep tabs on their past." Scorn muses while strolling down one of the vast row of shelves, preferring to peruse one of the less inhabited sections for the moment. "Hm, now where is it..." Fingers tick along the shelves while searching, but she stops when Deadlift speaks up and trails back to hand her a datapad. "I found it, my Queen." With a pleased little smile Scorn takes it and begins to scroll through. "Ah, thank you, dear. Now let's see what sort of drivel they've written about our kin here. Do remind me to track down that Bombshell again, by the way. I need to pick his brain for their full history, since I doubt this will shed much light on anything." Perhaps Scorn has noticed; perhaps she has not, but since her arrival, she has been monitored. It is to be expected; for her own safety as well as to aid in her /diplomatic mission/ to recover an Animatronian dignitary, all spy eyes have been on her. Multiple ones, in fact. A tiny drone in the shape of a spider skitters out of the way of Deadlift's feet, moving to a bookshelf and slipping inbetween two datapads, its camera lense focused on the female Insecticon, but there is no markings of government on it. No, this little device is under the control of someone who has been stalki--er, *observing* the Insecticon queen for awhile. A raspy voice speaks up from across the room. "Oh, the most -interesting- records won't be found up here, my Lady; these records have been appropriately scoured for the safety of public consumption. If you want truth, you'll have to go *deeper*." Scorn had figured Sentinel's people would have spies keeping tabs on her, but since her landing there'd been the strangest feeling of being watched for entirely different reasons. When her surveyor reveals his presence, Scorn casually glances up from the datapad to slowly survey the area, especially the rafters. "..Is that so. But for what reason should I trust someone who hides himself? I've had a feeling someone was trailing me since coming here, so no sense in staying in the shadows any longer." Deadlift is a loyal mech to his Queen, but even he chitters nervously while staying by herself. Scorn, meanwhile, stands tall with a calm expression, though every fiber of her being remains poised and ready to move at a moment's notice. "Reveal yourself." "Oh, forgive a doddering old mech for not introducing himself!" A hunched figure shuffled forward under a rich red meshsteel robe, his clawed, digitgrade feet showing out from underneath - he's no Hollow, not with pedes like /that/. He leans heavily upon a staff as walks. Beneath the hood, nine eyes are glowing. He comes within comfortable speaking distance of Scorn; the cloak is bound at his neck with a Senate and Guild sigil. He is apparently someone of importance. "My name is Tarantulas. I've been keeping at least one or two eyes on your since your arrival -- for your safey, you see." He manages to pull off sounding smooth as honey despite his hissing tone. "As you may well have noticed, aniforms are not free." "But if that is the case, then why do you bear their emblem?" A casual gesture to the cloak clapse. "And if you're indeed working for them, for what reason should I trust you?" Antennas twitch slightly and Scorn squares her stance a hair. The feeling of him is.. powerful, almost alien, so she tries to take extra care in caution around him. Tarantulas stands up straight, and reaches up to pull back his hood: He is an Arachnicon - a cousin of Insecticon, but not so much that there are not instances of bugs in spider's webs. The 'hunchback' lump behind him unfolds into legs, which delicately move the cloak aside. He sees no need to keep up the act; the female is different than others he's met. "Why do wraithflies have the image of optics on their wings?" he asks, insinuating camouflage. "I wear their markings because it /disgusts them/. Because my position among the elite is such that even the great Senator Proteus must give me what I want. If I ordered him to lick my pedes, he would have no choice but to genuflect." His mandibles flutter. Scorn, for once, actually allows her stoney demeanor to melt some in order to let a soft chuckle escape as lips spread into a delighted little smirk. "Is that so? I'll have to see you demonstrate sometime. But even from here I can feel you hold power, so I won't argue your claim." And that he's old, but she won't go pointing that out. Stepping forward, Scorn holds her hand out for him to take and speaks up in softer tone. "Since you've been following me I'm sure you know who I am, but allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Scorn, High Queen of the Insecticon kingdom of Animatron. A pleasure to finally meet someone so like-minded." Once formalities are finished, Scorn retracts her hand politely and cants head slightly to him. "Now, you mentioned information.. deeper. Would you care to show me, Tarantulas? I'm beginning to become highly curious of the situation here." Whether she can, or want to, help is another thing entirely, though. Tarantulas is already fantasizing about Scorn being slightly different - a couple more legs, a slightly different body shape (not that she isn't appealing now, but the old mech has his tastes). He takes the offered hand and bows, brushing his mandibles against the back of it in a show of courtesy and deference. "Charmed, my Queen," he states pleasantly before rising (and committing her scent to memory, oh, this one will keep him going for a looong time). "Allow me to take you to the lower levels. The Head Archivist won't mind - we have an /understanding/." He gestures to the stairs down the mezzanine, towards the lift downwards. Dozens of small Rewind-type data slug bots are moving out of Tarantulas' way, shuddering visibly. Tarantulas will just have to keep on dreaming, sadly. Scorn had an image to uphold, you know, and being anything but a mantis just wasn't on the table. Wings at her back shift and smile grows a tad sharper in a pleased manner at his polite gesture, not expecting anything less of a mech of his station. "Excellent, let us be off then. I have much to discuss on the way, so I hope you don't mind walk and talking." With all the grace that royalty demands, Scorn sweeps past Tarantulas, tall heels clicking sharply on the floor in time with the pendulum swing of her hips. If the mech isn't gawking too much she'll speak up, casting a glance to him with half-mast optics. "So, before we go delving into the past, I'd like you to tell me of the present. I recently spoke with a warper named Bombshell who told me of some of the current predicament here. I'm curious about him and his two siblings he spoke of, but first I must gauge just how many Insecticons inhabit Cybertron, how many self-aware and hives, and their relations with one another." Almost gliding down the steps, Scorn soon reaches the lift and steps inside with Deadlift, who's still eyeing Tarantulas heavily. "Hives should not be so scattered. A few exiles may start their own on the outskirts, yes, but ultimately there should be a unification of our kin to further our movement forward." "Oh I agree," Tarantulas states, ogling Scorn as she walks past. Oh yes, very nice indeed. "Tell me, then, how much do you know of 'Functionism'?" he asks first, wanting to gauge how much of an education he's going to need to give the fembot as he goes. He steps into the lift near Deadlift, giving Scorn plenty of room politely. "You're quite well-fueled," the spider asides to Deadlift. "Your joints are positively -singing- with the sounds of fresh lubricant." Yes, that was a compliment. A compliment that makes Deadlift pin back his antennae and give a faint hiss to keep away, though Scorn intervenes with a sharp look to the small ant mech and quiets him with a single word. "Silence." Back to Tarantulas, the mantis nods and crosses arms above the small of her back. "I read up on it during the trip from Animatron. A restriction of the people to only work within the confines of their altmode, with only some exceptions. From what I've seen Insecticons are barely even registered as disposable class. They're treated more as.. property." The word is said in disgust as Scorn lets herself scowl deeply, showing some of her feelings on the matter. "Correct," Tarantulas replies as he presses a button for a floor number, sending them on a trip to some of the deepest and oldest records on Cybertron in the basement. "Only in the wastelands and the deepest depths of Cybertron do Insecticon hives exist untampered with. The rest have been corralled into energon farms or recycling plants, or hunted on game preserves. Most do not speak the common or even the old tongue of Cybertron; they rely on wavespeech. I believe there has been a general degradation of the Insecticon breed due to the incessant culling of self-awares and the working of hatchlings, well, to -death-." "I'm apt to agree. What drones I did encounter were.." Scorn's brows pinch and a hard frown graces her face. "of far lower intelligence than is standard in my hive. They were baseline simple, almost like our prey." It's clear she's in no way in favor of this, her hands clenching behind her back as optics glare daggers into the floor. "I'm ashamed to know such a thing has happened to my own. ..But what of you?" She lifts her head to Tarantulas, piercing gold optics meeting the many looking back. "A mech of your station does indeed wield power. Do you have plans to rectify this slavery?" "Do you know of the Metrotitans, my queen?" Tarantulas asks as the elevator comes to a stop, and the doors open into the depths of the Hall of Records. Scorn isn't fond of her question going unanswered, but she assumes he has a point to make, so she humors him. "I have. There are many texts on Animatron that speak of them, though mostly of one called Hyperboria, the one that brought Animatron into existance. Some believe this, some don't. I, however, hold my judgement until I know for certain." She steps from the lift and continues along with the Arachnicon, Deadlift taking up the rear at a safe distance. "But why do you ask?" The curiousity is clear in her voice, wondering what the connection is. "Excellent. So the colonies do not forget the past," Tarantulas muses with satisfaction, stepping out of the lift into the depths of the hall. These rooms are dark charcoal gray, lit enough to study and see, but not very well. The datapads here are all in old neocybex and are primitive compared to the recordwork cared for above. There are even golden disks lined up in rows, ancient datatracks from times long past. "The fools of this world believe the titans are nothing more than -myth-," he begins. "Neither do they believe in the Guiding Hand, the Knights of Cybertron, or the powers of the Matrix. Only the most ancient even know of the war of the thirteen primes!" Tarantulas goes to a specific shelf and pulls out an old databook, bringing it to a table, expecting Scorn and Deadlift to come closer and be educated. "The answer to your questions begins the lineage of the Primes." "We've heard such tales on Animatron, brought to us by Cybertronian visitors long before the Clampdown. It's intriguing to imagine, but again, I reserve my opinions on the subject and instead focus on my Hive. I leave such recordings of the past to the lore masters." Both Scorn and Deadlift watch as Tarantulas moves off to get a certain databook, though the latter is more staring at the vast shelves of ancient text. Upon his return, Scorn lofts a brow and steps up, the ant following a moment behind, and leans in over the table in intrigue. "Hm.. Then please, do continue." "I was once the servant of the Lord of Beasts - Onyx Prime," Tarantulas begins, pulling seats out for Scorn and Deadlift, before going to his own, opening up the databook. "Onyx had waged war for millenia against Prima and his allies, but the war had turned due to a betrayal among the Primes. Onyx gathered to himself his soldiers, beasts of every kind, and left with Hyperboria to seek a new world. He knew what was coming. Those of us who stayed behind did so in order to safeguard the future of this world - *our world* - and those beast sparks that would rise from future hotspots in the world." Older than Animatron itself - the spider truly is -ancient-. He turns on the datapad, and there in the ancient languages, are records of the surviving tribes, collected by the scribes of someone named Nova Prime. Scorn doesn't take a seat when offered, instead almost gaping at the Arachnicon with genuine surprise on her face. "You served Onyx..?" She's about to say impossible, but stops herself, knowing that Cybertronians can live eons. With this new fact in place, she sits, still looking a little stunned. "So the story of Hyperboria is indeed true.. But what does this have to do with what's happening now?" Scorn isn't always impatient, but she'd very much like to know the point Tarantulas is trying to make. As for Deadlift, he's just about scrambled onto the table when the datapad is turned on, forgetting about the spider mech and intently observing the text. "I can read a little of this.." He mutters, fascinated. "Patience," Tarantulas states. Now he's the one giving orders. "An upstart of Prima's tribe, Nova, declared himself Prime after the colony ships left. This -bastard- to the throne subjugated the remaining populace of Cybertron. And this, my dear Scorn, is where Functionism had its birth. Those tribes that allied to Nova's were given a higher caste; those who were his enemies, the lowest of the lows. Do not imagine he spared the hollows from such slavery and denigration - oh no. They suffer under his heirarchy as much. The Functionists assess newly sparked Cybertronians in order to try to determine from what tribal genetics they sprang from, thus guaranteeing those who lost the war, and thus might rebel, are kept under the bootheel of the lineage of Senators and Primes. From this oppression springs the problem this world faces: Nova's vaunted 'Primal Vanguard' was nothing more than an army he intended to use to bring the colonies and every other species in the galaxy under his heel, but Primus seemed to defy him. The hot spots went dormant. There weren't enough Cybertronians for his goals." The datapad lists tribes and what castes and classes to which they would be assigned - what Tarantulas says seems to check out. "So he began -artificially creating- Cybertronians. Cold construction - 'knock offs' if one wishes to be vulgar. That overpopulation is what is causing the energon shortages that now push this functionist foolishness to the brink of civil war." "And that is where my sons - such as Bombshell - come into the picture." Scorn grunts faintly under her vocals, but quiets down to listen to the rest of the history lesson. And it's a good thing she does, as it's very insightful. Never would she have learned of this if Tarantulas hadn't approached her, but it makes her wonder.. Hm, maybe later. "And yet he continues to keep the planet on lockdown. Is he so bent on ruling that he'd risk a war? It's madness." But then he mentioned Bombshell and the others, making Scorn perk up. "..So you lead the trio. Somehow I'm not surprised." She smirks softly and straightens up in her seat. "He approached me in broad daylight. A bold move, especially in public. And he's much bigger than is usual for warpers. I admit I'm curious about he three of them, though he didn't speak well of one called Kickback." Ah yes, the family disappointment. "Nova is long gone, but his lineage and cruelty continues in Sentinel Prime. I would advise you to tread lightly. The lineage of the Primes is nothing but corruption now, tainted by these pretenders to the legacy. They care for nothing other than their comfortable control." "I have a very simple solution to all of this: It is time that Mortilus revives, if only in concept. This world is in need of balance -- with the predators gone the prey are multiplying and starving themselves. That is why I revived the strength of the Insecticon breed on Cybertron once more. Their hatred is almost filled completely - enough that they will, with proper care and training, reduce the population, purging it of the weak, the sick and the stupid. It is the duty of our tribe, our Prime, to maintain the fitness of our civilization, and that will only come when a great culling has begun. There will be no worry for caste or function then." Tarantulas seems to sigh and if possible, manages to frown with that side-ways mouth. "I gave Kickback as a hatchling to Senator Proteus, intending to see that the boy learned from Proteus' cunning and ruthlessness. I wanted him to suffer a little under the hands of that tyrant, but the pompous aft dumped Kickback into the hands of his attache! Instead of learning to be cunning he's been molly-coddled by that soft-hearted femme!" The spider hisses and grumbles. "It's going to take some work to undo all the insipid fluff that's been stuffed into his head." "A culling..." Scorn repeats to herself quietly while leaning into laced fingers with elbows upon the table, a pensive air about her. "A great task, to be sure. But this makes me wonder.." She ignores he comments about Kickback for right now and looks to him, expression stoney and serious. "Is this why you've been following me? To recruit me into your plan of restoring the balance that's lacking on this planet? Or is there another reason..?" Tarantulas' mood swings immediately from dour to cheerful. "Why did I tell you all of this? Because you wanted to know the truth of our kin, and how Insecticons are treated on this world." He leans forward and adds, "As for why I was following you? Well... I thoroughly enjoyed the view of your backside." Scorn can't help but narrow optics ever so slightly at the mech, not entirely convinced that he doesn't have some ulterior motive for following her. But she won't question it, not right now at least. "Hm.. Well, I do appreciate it. It's good to finally have some answers and you've certainly saved me a lot of digging." The comment on her behind is a little unexpected, but not at all surprising and actually brings the flash of a sharp, coy smile to her lips when leaning to regard him with dimmed optics. "It is nice, isn't it?" She coos, devilish smile growing as a digit teases along one of the Arachnicon's mandibles. "You're more than welcome to continue. It's nice to know I have an admirer." This is when Deadlift stutters, clearly a bit flustered from surprise. "M-My Queen!" Scorn can only smirk at the little ant and shrug. "Oh let me have my fun, won't you? When do I ever get the chance?" Tarantulas nearly has a spark attack right there. He was bracing for a slap or an attack or at least some kind of horrible dressing down through a verbal tirade but to have his clumsy little advance returned with something like THIS? Pass the old man his heart medication! Tarantulas' mandibles flutter as confused gibberish passes out of them along with wheezing giggles. Scorn chuckles at the old mech's reaction, withdrawing her hand and leaning back with legs crossing neatly. "What's the matter, Tarantulas? You look a bit flustered." She teases him now, playful little smile remaining. She's dealt with her fair share of oggling and stares, and ones from old mechs like him are right up there near the top of the list. He tries to clear his threat. "Well! It's just-- oh my! -- it's been a -very long time- since I have had a female return any of my affections!" he declares. If he could sweat he'd be filling buckets. Somehow that little spidery face of his manages to look as pleased as a petted cat. "Oh ho ho! Be still my spinnerettes!" This is far too amusing. It isn't often that Scorn has a chance to break from her royal demeanor and have a bit of fun, so she's more than happy to continue while it lasts. "Well, I'm not like most femmes." She flashes him a quick little wink. "Why any of them would squander any attention is beyond me. Plus, a mech of your age with your experience can be more preferable than some stuttering youngling." "E-e-excuse me, I think I need some air!" Tarantulas squeaks, vents flaring wide open to cool himself off. BREATHE DEEPLY OLD MAN. This woman is going to kill him. And yet she's hardly said anything! It must've been a really long stint for the old mech. And while Scorn would thoroughly enjoy messing with him further, Deadlift sees fit to interrupt her with a clearing of his vocals. "My Queen, don't forget you have an appointment soon." With a soft sigh Scorn relents in teasing Tarantulas and stands. "I suppose it would be rude if we were late. I'm afraid that, while I'd much prefer to stay in your company, I have a previous engagement. You'll have to forgive me, Tarantulas. Is there anything else you wished for me to know?" "I LOVE YOU!" Tarantulas suddenly blurts out all at once. Oops. Awkward. Scorn just sort of.. stares with a slowly rising brow until her brain catches up with what he just said and she offers an amused little smile that just barely shows her teeth. "Yet you hardly know me. Perhaps you should save that until I've spent more time in your company, mm? Trust me, I'm sure there's a few things even I could surprise an old mech like you with." What she's alluding to is unclear, but it's likely enough to get the spider mech's imagination going. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way." A polite half bow to him. "A pleasure meeting you, Tarantulas. And thank you again for the new knowledge. I hope we meet again soon." And with that she turns on heel and makes her way back to the elevator with Deadlift. It's fair to say she also throws a little sashay in her walk just to give the old Arachnicon another near spark attack. Tarantulas wheezes, staring with all nine optics as she leaves, frozen in place. Yes, what Scorn said will register in a few minutes but he's completely flummoxed otherwise. As soon as the doors to the lift close and Scorn is out of sight, the trance is broken and the Arachicon scowls. "Bah! Dummy! What were you thinking just then!?" he berates himself. "You should have waited until you had a gift! Or at least something to drug her with!" He fist shakes, then, transforming and wrapping himself in his cloak, he skitters off - not up - but into the ventilation systems of the hall, and into the lower depths of the city.